Why?
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Faramir has a slightly disturbing proposition for his father on a beautiful summer day. Denethor never really felt comfortable answering his son's questions... Another from the DenFin Files & 50lyrics challenge.


A/N: Another written for 50 lyrics fanfic challenge: _45. I never thought that this day would ever come; when your words and your touch just struck me numb. _I own nothing. I'll dedicate this one to my little cousins, for their inspirations for Faramir.

Words: 843

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"Papa?" Denethor repressed his urge to sigh. It was not that he disliked answering his younger son's questions, but the boy had so many. The Steward never remembered having to deal with such a barrage from his elder child. Boromir still wanted his father to watch his sword lessons, though he had grown too old to tug at Denethor's robes when his parent could not follow him immediately to the practice field. Faramir had learned earlier to phrase his requests without the use of such a childish gesture, but very rarely were his rounds of questioning as restful as sitting back and watching approvingly, as was all Boromir required of Denethor. 

"Yes?" The Steward readjusted his paperwork, inviting Faramir to his desk. Denethor longed for the restfulness that came from time sent with his sons; even Faramir's unflagging curiousity was generally lighter in mood than the disheartening field reports. But Gondor did not rise and fall because one soldier was not there to see Boromir master some new technique. Minas Tirith did not care if Faramir knew why the sky was blue, so long as it was blue and not blackened by the Dark Lord's fires. Most of the West could care less about the budding headache that throbbed in Denethor's temples. Rest could wait until after he had finished.

"Can we go see Mama today? I promise to be quiet." Denethor did not know where this rather morbid tendency had come from, but from the time Faramir had begun to understand that his mother wasn't coming back to him, Denethor's younger son had gone looking for her. This had led to his discovery of Silent Street, and many an evening in which a mystified guardsman brought the boy home, telling his father of half-heard whispered converstations with a stone casket. Denethor frowned upon such things, but had not yet made up his mind to ban Faramir from the place entirely. He knew all too well the attraction of forbidden objects to a boy of Faramir's mind. But still, it was unseemly for a son of the Steward to be disturbing the quiet of the dead. And the Steward knew that Faramir's frequent trips were beginning to make his governess uneasy.

This was the first time that Faramir had invited him tacticly along. Denethor himself had avoided the crypt, visiting only twice in the year and a half since his wife's funeral. There was no sense in going back, not when there were problems enough amongst the living. It was true that Denethor missed her, for her welcome ability to distract him from the dry, grim concerns of the court, her gentle support, and certainly for her easy manner with their sons. But it was his ability to govern effectively that mattered to Gondor, not how desperately he missed his bride. There was no reason to drive himself into further despair by picking at the scars about his heart.

And so, he had stopped talking about her. Should someone ask, he could let the mask fall into place and respond politely, but Denethor refused to bring up her memory of his own volition. Unconsciously, he had even stopped using her name in the private spaces of his mind, unwilling to sully it through continued use. He would not forget her. He never could. But Denethor forced himself to remain practical, and practicality demanded that he remain in full possession of his thoughts, not allow them to wander back to better days.

"Not now, Faramir," the Steward replied shortly.

His son returned his gray gaze steadily. "Why?"

"Because with as much trouble as the rest of Gondor is in, the dead deserve a little peace!" That came out more harshly than Denethor had intended, but he did not much regret it. The boy would have to learn someday that sneaking out to the Silent Street and holding conversations with the deceased was hardly suitable behavior. It might as well be now.

Faramir nodded; the spark in his eyes was routed, but not yet defeated. "We don't talk to her enough. She misses you, Papa." The secondary meaning of those words had barely reached Denethor before his son drew a mask over his expression, as complete as any the Steward himself might have worn. The seven-year-old raised himself to his tiptoes, hugging his bemused father about the neck. "I should go."

"Not to the crypt, Faramir," Denethor said, finally loosing the sigh as his son gave him a parting wave, acknowledging the Steward's mandate.

Denethor's attention stubbornly refused to return to the reports upon his desk. He stood, turning to peer out the window behind him. The Sun was shining brightly for once, completely free of cloud cover, and the city beneath moved apace. It was a perfect day for boys such as his sons to be up to mischief-making, or for young lovers to meet for a tryst. It was entirely too nice out there to have the least thing in common with his current mood. But Finduilas would have loved it, and for that reason alone, Denethor smiled.


End file.
